Damon Knight - Orbit 21

“My tent can be securely—”

“Not good enough. No tent.” He glanced furtively at the others and must have sensed their solid support. “Either come to our tent or else we go to yours.”

“I won’t let—”

“Damn it, we’re not kidding.”

She glared at him. All night—with them. What would it be like? And their damned whispering. “All right,” she said breathlessly. “I’ll do it.”

“And share a watch?”

She nodded, acknowledging defeat. “And that, too.”

Crouched within the dark, Hera heard the children breathing. With the lantern extinguished, the tent was a vast, unseen arena, filled with sound. For most of the day, while they marched, she had sensed the beast. It didn’t seem to be present now. The children had gone right to sleep—no whispering. Even Ares now was snoring. Latone, his father, had never slept a wink, but Ares was one-fourth more human.

“Hera?”

She jumped at the sound, reaching for her knife. “Who is it?”

“Me. Horace.” He was a shy, stammering boy, “I need to go out.”

“We already decided that you can’t.”

“But I have to—I—I have to eliminate.”

She understood his need. He was younger than most of them, only one E-year Cady’s senior. His hand suddenly gripped hers —five barbed fingers and a thumb. Like Latone, a blend of Zeus and Satan. How did these children live? “Then go. But don’t stray far. Do it right outside the tent and hurry back.” His mother’s people, longship puritans, had gleefully torn her apart when her bastard son was born among them. “And take my lantern.”

“Yes, Hera.”

She slid aside to let him pass. He loosened the tent flaps and went straight out.

Later she heard: “Hera?”

The voice came from right beside her. “Ares?”

“You bet.”

“What do you want?”

“It’s time for my watch.”

“Oh,” she said. “Oh, good. I’m already tired.”

At dawn the children woke, although no light penetrated the tent. Hera, struggling against lingering sleep, sat up and tried to find the lantern.

Then she heard Ares shout. Crawling over, she pushed open the unsealed tent flaps. Daylight momentarily blinded her.

The children, drawn by the light, pushed past her.

She heard Ares: “Hera, Hera, come quick—it’s Horace.”

She found him at last and fought the children to reach the body. The sight of poor Horace affected her even more deeply than Samuel. Had she forgotten the horror so soon?

“It’s exactly the same,” Ares said bitterly. He pointed at the neatly arranged pile of internal organs. “Do you still think it’s an accident?”

“Get back,” she told the children. “Go inside the tent and wait there. Patria, come and take Cady. Please go away.”

When they were alone at last, Ares pointed to the lantern beside the body. “How did this get out here?”

It was the moment she had dreaded since Ares’ first shout. “I gave it to him.”

“You let him come out?”

“I—I—he had to go eliminate. You know how he was. It was the way he was brought up.”

“You let him out and didn’t say anything.”

“I must have forgotten. I thought you’d notice.”

“You let this happen. The beast was there.”

“No, no.” She wouldn’t let him blame her. “It’s just a wild animal, and you can’t feel that.”

“You’ve felt it yourself—don’t tell me you haven’t.”

“No—never.”

“You liar!” He gripped and held her. “Damn it, you have to know.”

“I don’t—I don’t know anything.” She jerked away from him and ran, fleeing back to her children.

They walked unsteadily through a delicate forest that seemed alive with shades of green, blue, and gold. This, thought Hera, must be how the ancient Earth had looked and smelled during the long eons before mankind arrived to spoil its beauty. God, she thought, how long has it been since I’ve smelled these leaves and felt this wind? She remembered as a little girl experiencing such serene hours as these in urban parks; but this was a whole planet. She had gone to the Moon to teach. The special children —only Latone and Samuel then—had required a calm guiding spirit to lead them toward real humanity, and she had eagerly volunteered to serve.

Cady walked at her side. She would never remember. Nothing ever impressed Cady—nothing lingered. She had forgotten last year, last month, last week; in her mind, the past was a gray shadow. Cady saw the trees and clouds, felt the wind, heard the incessant music of whispering leaves and grass. Cady was a simple child who perceived existence as if it were a sudden and spontaneous creation; she carried no preconceptions within her. And I? thought Hera. If I stayed here, how long would it take before I became like her?

She sprang ahead, abandoning Cady. Ares stalked at the head of a ragged line. “I think we ought to stop somewhere near. We can’t reach the lakes today.”

“If you want. It’s back there, you know.”

“I didn’t.”

“You can’t feel it?”

“The children said nothing. I’ve been walking with Cady all day.”

He laughed. “She knows a lot she doesn’t tell you. And I’ve been thinking, too. About the beast—what it might be.”

“How could you ever know that?”

“I think it’s one of us. I think we made it. It wasn’t alive before we came. It’s a ghost, an ugly soul, but it belongs to one of us.”

“That’s superstition.”

“No, it’s not. We all know about the unconscious mind. And this is an alien planet. Who knows what can happen here?”

“You have no basis for making such an assumption.”

He glared at her. “Don’t I? Listen, you tell me one thing that makes more sense.”

“A wild animal.”

“Bullshit, Hera. Animals have feet and we’ve found no prints. Animals have bodies and we’ve seen nothing. The beast isn’t a thing—it’s a dark spirit, a soul. It’s part of this planet but it’s ours, too.”

“Oh, shut up, shut up.” She clutched her aching head. “Stop here.” She pointed to a stand of trees emerging ahead. “I’m tired —sick.”

She and Ares were struggling to inflate the tent when Patria rushed sobbing to her side.

“Hey, slow down. Dear, what is it? You can tell Hera—you can.” She shook the girl to calm her. “Is it about Cady?”

“She’s gone off,” cried Patria. “I tried to stop her, Hera, I did.”

“I believe you, child.”

“She wouldn’t listen.”

“Went off?” Ares broke in angrily. “How the hell could you let her do that?”

“You shut up,” Hera told him. She realized now that the beast had vanished. The air seemed freshly scrubbed. She repressed her sudden panic. “Just tell me, Patria. Where did Cady go?”

She turned instinctively to Ares. “You know how she can be. She must have just forgotten—about the beast. We were playing, and Jambal was with us. Cady was supposed to hide her eyes, except when we peeked, she was already running. We called and called—I did—but she wouldn’t answer. Before, she kept saying how pretty the forest looked. I think she just wanted to see it better.”

“Damn it, we’ll never find her now,” Ares said.

“No, I’ll try,” Hera said.

“But what if something happens?”

“Then I’ll be there to stop it.”

“In there,” Patria said, pointing. “That’s the way she went.”

“Then that’s the way I’ll have to go. Ares, you’ll be in charge until I return. Get the children inside the tent and keep them there. Darkness or not, don’t ever budge.”